by Dalya Moon
“Derp.”
“Don't derp me.” I explained how I'd taken the dreads out and had really soft makeup on the day Marc had invited me to the art show, but I hadn't been able to recreate the same guy-wowing effect ever since.
“How did the I-have-unprotected-sex eyebrow piercing factor into your new 'normal' plan?” She did air quotes around the word normal.
I got my first twinge of regret over the piercing. Defensively, I said, “Eyebrow piercings don't say promiscuous. Maybe tongues do, a little. Not that I would think that and judge someone, but other people might.”
“Slippery slope,” she said, licking the icing out of an Oreo. “But if you want a guy, you have to look like the girl they want.”
“And what is that?”
“Megan Fox,” she said.
“That's so weird. Our prep cook at The Whistle is obsessed with her. As if he could get a girl like that!”
“Exactly. These guys have been trained by movies and video games to think they deserve the prize, no matter how grody they are.”
“Toph isn't the worst, but still.”
“You have to be that unattainable, ideal girl, who oozes sexuality, but exclusivity,” Haylee said.
For a moment, I took back all my mental grumbling about Haylee talking non-stop about Andrew and felt truly appreciative of my friend. We hadn't spent much time together since graduation, and that was a mistake. I loved Courtney, of course, but she wasn't exactly helpful in the hetero-dating department. Haylee at least had some experience.
“Take this,” Haylee said, waving her hand over her hair, face, and body. She wore a huge sweatshirt along with some pants that may have been pajamas. “This is the opposite of how you want to look. Andrew's out with friends today, so I'm taking the morning off.”
“You look comfortable.”
“The wrong kind of comfortable,” she said, laughing. “I'm getting my hair highlighted today and the color fixed. It's expensive, and a total rip-off, but so worth it. Then full makeup tomorrow morning, first thing. Andrew says he likes the natural look. It takes me about fifteen minutes to achieve the natural look.”
I slumped in my chair. “My eyebrow piercing was a mistake.”
She blinked at me, tilting her head to the side. “One tiny piercing is classy, but don't get more unless you want to go in that direction and get a guy with a face full of chains.”
I made an ew face. “I don't wanna date a guy with face piercings.” Quickly, I clapped my hand over my big mouth. “Woah, double standard,” I said.
She tapped her fingers on the counter. “Interesting.”
“I'm a horrible person.”
“You like what you like,” she said. “When it comes to boyfriends, you're not hiring someone or renting out an apartment. You don't have to be an equal opportunity dater.”
“I have an open mind,” I said.
“Nobody cares,” she said. “Guys either want to fuck you or own you or don't care, and which one do you want to be?”
I laughed nervously and took out my phone to check the time. Shouldn't Haylee be going to get her laundry?
“This was really fun,” I said, standing. “I have to put on some stew for when Dad and Garnet get back from soccer.” I began putting away my sewing stuff. My little Forgotten Creature, a pink and grey bunny with mismatched ears, just needed a face.
Haylee grabbed a handful of cookies and began moving toward the front door. “We're having a belated housewarming,” she said. “I'll send out the invites tonight, after my hair appointment.”
“Party sounds fun. Any single guys?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Nobody your type.”
“I've never had a boyfriend. How do you know what type I like?”
“Exactly,” she said. “You're fussy. And you don't like the guys who like you.”
As we walked through the hall to the front door, past the family photos, I said, “Shut up! What?”
“You heard me. You should try liking a guy who likes you. What about that Toph guy from your work?”
“He's so skinny, and not in the right areas.”
She shrugged. “So, make him a sandwich. Work with what you've got.”
“Uhh … I'll think about it.”
“The party's bring-your-own-bottle,” she said.
“Of course.”
“But you can bring an extra one for sharing.”
I nodded. “Yup. And feel free to invite some extra cute guys, for sharing.”
She gave me a hug and left.
I thought about Toph. He was only eighteen, so maybe he wasn't quite fully grown yet.
After Haylee was gone, I searched through my collection of found objects for eyes to put on the Creature. The key to making your Creatures whimsical is to not put the eyes on in the expected, obvious places, but to affix them extra-wide, or extra-narrow, or too high, or too low. Another key, when it comes to the body, is to not give the Creature any neck. Necks are for people.
Frustrated by my lack of eyeball options, I did a quick search around the house, from the junk drawer in the kitchen, to the junk drawer in Dad's office. I found some old keys that would make neat neck-ties, but no eyes. Since Garnet was still out of the house, I wandered into his room.
I couldn't think of the last time I'd been in there, but the smell reminded me why I don't go in often. The boy, in person, smells okay, but something about a week's worth of laundry, even piled neatly in his hamper, seemed to create a critical bacterial level.
Also, there was something else in the air besides dust and boy cooties. Skunk? No, it wasn't a skunk, because the window wasn't open. Pot?
After a five-minute search, I found a plastic baggie and two joints, in my little brother's underwear drawer, under a folded stack of underwear.
Pot!
What the hell?!
I marched out of his room, down to the kitchen, slammed the baggie on the counter, and crossed my arms. Now what?
No, really, what was I supposed to do? Be the cool big sister and suggest a better hiding space? Narc him out to my parents immediately? Take it for myself and plan a little experimentation party for me and my friends?
I was angry, though. How dare he bring pot into the house on my watch?
The baggie lay guiltily before me. That was when I started talking out loud to myself, muttering about what was or wasn't in Mom's instructions. I even opened her binder and searched under D for drugs and M for marijuana, but found nothing.
Philosophically, I have no problem with pot. People can pay a doctor to vacuum fat out of their asses and inject it into their cheeks or lips or whatever, and that's legal. Alcohol is legal and it makes people want to hit each other; pot makes people laugh and get hungry for Bugles.
So, I wasn't against the pot existing. We have a dispensary not far from the house, on East Broadway, that sells it for medicinal use to cancer patients, so it can't be that bad. By comparison, nobody gets a prescription for vodka.
All things being equal, however, I'd rather my little brother was not smoking anything mind-altering at the tender age of fifteen. His little teen brain didn't need that.
My Uncle Jeff is a great example of the dangers of drug use on a still-developing brain. When I was little, the guy terrified me. Who am I kidding? He still terrifies me.
I picked up the bag, pulled open the seal, and sniffed the contents. The little bugger couldn't say he was just holding the joints for a friend, because I'd smelled the smoke in his room. I had nose-witness smell evidence as well as physical evidence.
I put my face in my hands, feeling sick to my stomach, accidentally touching my raw-feeling eyebrow piercing with my dirty fingers.
Angrily, I sealed the bag again and stomped upstairs to return the bag to where I'd found it, right under the folded underwear. “Seriously, Garnet,” I said, still talking to myself like a crazy person. “Top drawer? It's like you want to be found out. Why didn't you tape them to the outside of your favorite hoodie?”
Satisfied that his bedroom had been adequately threatened with violence, I went to my bathroom and did the cleansing ritual on my piercing. I calmed down.
Everything was different after that.
I don't know how to explain it other than I looked up from the sink and saw my mother's face in the mirror. I never realized how much I looked like her. There she was, staring back at me.
She asked me, How do you like having my job?
I didn't like it at all.
Cooking dinner was losing its novelty. I didn't want to worry about my teenage brother and what he was getting into. I just wanted to daydream about boys, hang out with my friends, watch movies, and go shopping. I didn't want to work five days a week at a diner.
Things in my life were changing so fast, and I felt so lost and alone. A day earlier, everything had seemed better. A month ago, everything had been wonderful; a month ago, my mother had been there, taking care of us.
I brought my laptop over to my bed and turned it on, checking for email from Mom. She hadn't sent anything since her very dry, just-the-facts message from a few days earlier.
However, over on Facebook, Marc had finally accepted my friend request.
Chapter 15
A flush of excitement washed over me as I checked out Marc's Facebook page and saw his serious-looking profile photo, with him wearing those brown tortoiseshell glasses, and his mouth in a straight line. It felt good to dismiss my worries about my brother's secret drug stash. I'd just ignore it, like my father would.
As I was browsing through some of Marc's other photos and interests, a message from within Facebook's chat popped up from Marc: Hey.
Me: Saturday night!!! Woot! What big exciting plans have you got going on?
As I waited painful seconds for his response, I hoped he didn't already know about my terrible, disastrous kiss with his friend Cooper. Guys don't typically gossip quite as much as girls, and I hoped that kiss was the type of thing Cooper wouldn't share.
If Marc didn't know, I could take charge of the story and tell him myself, controlling the situation with my own spin. I could probably downgrade it to a scenario in which Cooper and I bumped faces by accident and in my confused state, I'd lingered, so it may have seemed to Cooper that I'd kissed him, when really, I hadn't.
Him: Pickles and I are planning to have a walk and then watch a movie on Netflix.
Me: You should come over so I can tell you the entire awkward story about me almost macking on some poor guy yesterday. Or not. I'll just pretend it didn't happen.
Him: You have Netflix.
I was pretty sure he meant that as a question, not a statement. What's with some guys and their inability to use question marks in text messages? Do they think the curvy question mark is too feminine?
Me: Yes, we have Netflix. And popcorn. And a stash of movie-grade snacks.
Him: You're sure you're not going out with your friends.
Me: It's nice to stay in sometimes. Want to come over at 8? Or come earlier, for dinner?
Him: Just the movie at 8. I'll bring Pickles.
Me: Yes, I'd love to see her.
I tried to say goodbye, but he was already gone, logged off. He would be coming over in less than three hours, and I still had to get the dinner started for my family. I squealed with happiness when I remembered Mom had left some money for pizza a few of the nights. Phew! Crisis averted.
Still, that only left me three hours to make myself look like Megan Fox, and for one thing, my hair was the wrong color. I phoned Haylee to follow up on a few things she'd said earlier that day.
After I explained my situation, she said, “You have to make yourself the prize. Guys like to win video games and sports.” In the background, someone laughed.
“Who's that?” I asked.
“My hairdresser, hold on.”
“Hi Sweetie,” said a voice I couldn't identify as male or female. “I'm trying to put color in Haylee's hair, and she can't be on the phone.”
I sighed into the phone from my end. “Fine, I'll just mess it up with my big, smart-talking mouth, like I always do.”
“If your mouth is the problem, just count to five before you say anything.”
“What?”
“Buzz! You just spoke without counting to five. Now try again.”
I counted. One. Two. Three.
“See, I like you more already,” the voice said.
Four. Five.
“That's ridiculous!” I said after I'd gotten to five, but the little red icon was showing on my phone's screen. Haylee's hairdresser had already disconnected.
Forty-five minutes after my consultation with Haylee and her hairdresser, I was preparing to mix chemical compounds together. Hair dye. Specifically, L'Oreal Superior Preference, Brown #4.
My natural hair color is a shade my mother calls mouse. She and I share this lovely color, a tone some people call mousey brown, though mine has a little red, from my father.
I still had a couple of hours before Marc arrived, so I ripped open the box and put on the plastic gloves, which felt rubbery and pleasant on my hands. I'd never dyed my own hair before, but I had helped Haylee a few times, before she upgraded to a hair salon, so I knew the basics.
After mixing the two liquids, I took off my clothes so I wouldn't get them stained, and started applying the haircolor. It smelled horrible, like a tiger was peeing directly on my head. I breathed only through my mouth and as little as possible without passing out. I imagined the paramedics arriving to find me, butt-naked and out cold.
I set the timer on my phone for twenty-five minutes and grabbed my laptop to look up Megan Fox photos to make myself feel depressed. I mean, for inspiration.
What's most remarkable about her is how she doesn't really look that unique. If you see her in the rare photo where she's not showing her big, white teeth between seductively-parted lips, she could be the prettiest girl at anyone's school.
My heart soared with sick delight when I found a series of articles talking about her toe-thumbs. Apparently, she has short thumbs and people make a big deal about her imperfection. People are so twisted, I thought as I zoomed in on every photo I could find.
The timer went off and I panicked. How was I going to wash it off without getting chemicals in my eyebrow piercing? I wrapped a towel around myself, running down to the big bathroom to look for Band-Aids to cover my piercing. I couldn't find any, so I used some cotton balls and masking tape. It looked ridiculous, but it worked.
After I washed the goopy mess out in my tub, I admired myself. Some of the brown dye had darkened my scalp, which made my hair look even thicker and healthier-looking. I had, however, left the dye on too long while I'd made the eyebrow protection, and it was a lot closer to black than I'd wanted.
I tried to make the best of it and copied Megan's makeup look from a photo. It didn't seem like I was wearing any makeup at all, but I guess that was the natural look guys like.
I put on some black jeans and a gray v-neck t-shirt and began deliberating over my wardrobe choices.
The doorbell ring. To my utter shock, it was already eight o'clock, and Marc was there.
I looked down at my schlubby clothes. “Authentic,” I said out loud to myself. “This is fine. I look authentic.”
The front door opened as I was coming down the stairs, and my father and brother came in right behind Marc, who was carrying a big bag of Doritos in one hand and holding the dog, Pickles, up with the other arm.
Marc wore khaki pants, a button-down shirt, and a serious Crossword Guy expression on his face. He definitely came off as aloof or cranky when he wasn't smiling.
“What h
appened to your hair?” Garnet asked. “You look like a witch.”
“Thanks,” I said.
My father dropped his big ring of keys to the floor, staring open-mouthed at me. At first I thought he was having a bad reaction to the hair, but then, when the yelling started up, I heard the word “piercing” in the noise. Well, good for him, he'd finally noticed.
Pickles, Marc's little cream and brown Shih Tzu, began barking excitedly, punctuating my father's rant.
“Lighten up, it's not a tattoo!” I yelled at my father, which was, apparently, not a valid justification for “putting diseased holes” in my body.
“It's not diseased yet,” I said calmly. “I have a special wash to prevent infection.”
Garnet tried to squeeze past me to sneak up the stairs, but I stopped him with an outstretched arm. “Not so fast,” I said.
“Enjoy your reaming,” he said sarcastically. “Lemme through.”
As I observed the reactions on everyone's faces, from Garnet's sneer to Dad's rage and Marc's extreme discomfort, I started to get angry. I was eighteen, not a child, and how dare my father humiliate me like that in front of the guy I liked?
Dad had slowed down his ranting to get some air, so I grabbed hold of Garnet by the collar of his shirt and announced to my father, “I found two joints in your son's bedroom.”
Never before had I sounded more like my mother. Whenever we do anything bad, she tells my father, referring to us as his daughter and his son, as in, “Guess what your daughter and your son decided to microwave today?”
Garnet, who I was holding on to by his soccer jersey, looked like he might faint.
“Is this true?” Dad asked.
Garnet, who may have been an idiot for hiding illegal items in the most obvious location, did not suffer an attack of the stupids when accused of such on that particular Saturday evening.
Some teen boys would have denied it. Others might cry and beg for mercy.
What my little brother did was squirm out of his jersey, leaving me with a handful of fabric. He then pushed past me while shoving me down, so that I fell on my hands and knees at the foot of the stairs, blocking access. As I tumbled, he scooted his little fifteen-year-old legs up those stairs faster than you would believe.
